Moment's Notice - Jazz
by ericluo04
Summary: A story of the bonds a father and son share and how moments change when tragedy strikes.


Moment's Notice

I would die for John Coltrane. And I can't imagine a single person who wouldn't. Great Jimmy Heath praised the young sport as the single virtuoso and musical genius of his age. For good reason! Coltrane was the master of counterpoint, a pioneer of musical development, the maestro of blending harmony and melody, the author of a single, elegant art form. But to me, Coltrane was always just my father's favorite.

Count Basie was an awfully good composer, but father said he never wrote any interesting trumpet sections. Mingus was fun at times, but father never liked his thundering harmonies. It was always Coltrane. Always the bounding leaps of musical intricacy, the elaborate shifts in chord structure, the delicacy of quartet construction. I loved Coltrane. But even more than my love for Coltrane, I loved how father loved Coltrane.

He loved Coltrane as if the man was a friend, not just as a gent swept away by the tides of history and the passage of time, but as a companion. Father would tell me stories (he told them often) about how back in his days at university, it was Coltrane who would guide him through dark times. Some were funny, others were sad, but there is one story in particular I always love recounting. Father would start every tale with "from a land way back yonder and a time farther than meets the eye," almost as if he were a poet. A musician? Yes, undeniably so. A poet? A penman? A dramatist? No, no, and perhaps. Father always had big dreams, and these passions sometimes translated into his speech. Those who knew him casually called it culturally sophisticated; those who knew him close called it rather amusing. I found it downright hilarious. So when father said "from a land way back yonder," I always smiled, knowing that he was referencing our little town's University of West London. In fact, I'm really squinting my eyes now, and I can just make out the old building's unremarkable English frame through my window (I had to wipe the fog off the pane to see it clearly – oh, how I loathe London condensation). Then when father added, "and a time farther than meets the eye," I remember involuntarily snorting aloud. What he really meant was back in a particularly awkward stage of adulthood, that transition period where no one really knows what they're doing. Otherwise known as college. Otherwise known as the entirety of my dad's life. Though I really shouldn't be too harsh on the old man.

At the time, father was reaching a crossroads. The absolute grandeur of the world blurred his vision, and he would often peer into the distance, as if confused or deep in thought. If any day could clear up father's uncertainty in one fell swoop, it would have to be March 17th. The day of his audition for the Vanguard Jazz Orchestra. I'm chuckling silently know as I write out the orchestra's full name. It always seems official, important, filled with purpose. Everything my father wanted to be at the time. He took me with him to his audition; father said it would temper his nerves and "cool his tepid soul." As a measure of good luck, his trumpet got front row privileges, comfortably bouncing up and down on the passenger side. I was relegated to back seat duty. Humming his set piece, Father faithfully recited the rather tricky Glen Miller composition. Father's voice danced with ease, and his fingers did the same. What a curious habit for us musicians, dancing fingers that is. It seems impossible to consciously control the drumming, the tapping, the motioning of a quick F sharp or high B flat. Father was no exception to these whims of musical habit. Looking at his outstretched hand, I realized how much I loved the sight of father's calloused fingers gliding across the steering wheel. He played the wheel with an almost elegant ease. I half expected him to rip the thing out of his car and take it with him to his audition, proudly declaring that he had found a new trumpet and would be playing it for the judges now.

We arrived, and of course, no such thing happened. Everything swept along in a hurry, and we soon found ourselves in a tiny hallway, nervously waiting for father's name to get called. Collecting himself, father pulled out his earplugs and listened to Miller's birdsong. He hummed along. Nestled on father's shoulder, I quickly fell asleep, vibrating (perhaps shaking would be a better term) every time he let out a particularly low note.

I awoke to the door's gentle creak. A man of modest stature peered around the doorframe, looking curiously at my father. Unaware, father was in the midst of humming the final few clauses of "In the mood" when the man lightly tapped him on the shoulder. "That was supposed to be a G, my friend. It's a common mistake, playing the E. It does sound nicer that way." The man smiled and motioned him into the audition room. My father, beet red, mortified, crept unbalanced into the chamber. Father later told me that he was thinking of Coltrane at the time, how E was his favorite note, how he really couldn't believe he mixed the two. I remember patting him on the back. "Don't worry old pal," I said. "I'm sure the man'll get a few laughs remembering your blunder someday." Father slapped me hard on the back. I laughed in return.

Turns out when I said someday, it became the next day. The man, Nick Marchione, was in fact the lead trumpeter for the orchestra. Marchione developed a great liking to my father's cool personality, and of course, paid great respect to his musical prowess. So, the next morning, a loud knock on the door roused us from slumber. A messenger declared that father would have to get dressed, and quick. He was inducted, the newest member of The Vanguard Jazz Orchestra. Absolutely no time to waste, chop chop hally ho! Right then and there, father beamed. Not with excitement, but like the Sun. I swear he almost blinded me that day.

Fast-forward eleven years and now its last week. It was another one of those days. We woke to a morning charged with purpose, with direction, with excitement! In just three hours, father would stand upon a grand stage. He would stand alone yet together, solitary in his music yet in the company of the orchestra. Glenn Miller, Moonlight Serenade. Father would often describe the piece as truly indescribable. I remember his eyes would twinkle as he tried to guide me through his starry, tuneful skies. It was a vast expanse of pure exhilaration, and only a fragment of his emotion would ever touch down to Earth, where his son gazed wistfully above. Father's music was a special place for father and father alone.

This composition was his labor of love. But I never interpreted father's infatuation with Miller as a wavering of the heart. No, father still loved Coltrane best. The minute we entered our car, father found a certain favorite of ours to play over the loudspeak. "Mars." It was the last of Coltrane's creations, crafted with the man's very soul. As we rounded the curb, the last chorus, a triumphant exaltation of sweet vitality and life and joy, eased to a close. Then, as if in unison, father and I looked at each other, grinned, then motioned with our hands: _up, down, up, down, up, down, UP, AND DOWN_. The last few notes began with eight beautiful, long, mellow, drawn out constructions. Then silence. And then Coltrane began to dance. He bounded left and the drums would unleash their booming cry, he stepped right and the bass would tinkle with grace, he jumped forwards and the drums would.

A screech of metal. Glinting streaks of bronze struck our frame, collapsing the fragile body of our vehicle. Father and I were motionless. Time had stopped…

And then it began anew. The lights dimmed and the drums beat on. We sat alone in a smoky concert hall. I turned to my left and noticed him smiling. About to ask why, I heard it. Coltrane's "In a Sentimental Mood." Almost instantly, its delicate, soprano whispers lulled us both into a calm daze, a careless, euphoric bliss. Yet for some odd reason, the audience outside seemed agitated. They whispered in frightened tones and spoke in strangely tense voices. I was wondering exactly what had happened until I viewed the percussion section. Oh, they were in absolute ruins! Every time the poor man tried to strike his ride cymbal, it released an unpleasant blare. Every time the humble woman tried to strike her triangle, it released a potent noise, almost akin to the sound of crumpling iron. I winced and shuddered when they tried to salvage a note, recover a thrash of the drum. After a while, their noise faded in the distance and it became easier to focus in on the harmonies. On Coltrane.

Falling from the sky above, water rushed in. Not a dripping from a leak, but a torrential downpour, enveloping the hall with its hydrous tendrils. The melodies faded, muted by the ocean of waves. Until crescendo. The trumpets bellowed their mighty roar and tugged at the crests of the sea. I turned to father. He laughed, reveling in the music, enraptured by this swirling wonderland. The rest of the audience became increasingly more restless as the symphony approached its close. In the midst of this agitation, a deep wailing pierced the placid chime of the saxophone. A woman arose from the water, from the masses, cloaked in a robe of fire. Her dress glimmered in the dark, a scarlet flame flickering red, then blue, then white, then scarlet. Her voice set the angels to rest, engulfing our souls in a deep slumber. I tugged at father's shirt. "A siren," I whispered. "She's here to take us away." And that she did. Coltrane, in the presence of her beguiling voice, continued to extend the volume. It intensified, strengthened, swelled, molding into a music beyond audible comprehension.

Entranced by a spell, father and I sat motionless awaiting Coltrane's closure. Without notice, the entire world brightened. The ocean erupted in light. It sparkled bright and magnificent, fragmenting the glare in a lacework of delicate water drops. Through the waters, a glorious E minor erupted from the noble bells of the brass. It wavered in the still air, caught in a web of continued resonance. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the notes tapered off into silence. I turned to father. He was expressionless; a lone tear escaped his violet eyes. Red curtains closed. Father disappeared. The world faded to black.

* * *

I would die for John Coltrane. And sometimes I wish I were the one that did. It's like the theory of equivalent exchange, the idea that humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. Like when I listen to Coltrane, I think back on life. A life of sadness, and happiness, a life of silence, and of humming, a life of music, and a life of following in the footsteps of someone larger than me.

Equivalent exchange doesn't encompass everything that goes in the world, but I still choose to believe in its principle, that all things do come at a price, that there's an ebb and a flow, a cycle. The indecision and hesitancy of our early days were for a reason. Our passion for Coltrane and our love of music were for a reason. Perhaps they gave us father's beautiful Vanguard symphony, perhaps they just gave us a love for life. Nowadays, I don't think of equivalent exchange as a law of the world anymore. I think of it as a promise, between my father and me. A promise that someday, we'll see each other again. Someday, Coltrane's voice won't sound as sad. Someday, father and I can listen to the same music. Someday, I can nestle in his shoulders once more. But for now, I'll keep him in my memories.


End file.
